


When All's Well

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Grieving, Hope, M/M, Maybe a teensy bit fucked up on Hank's part, Post Apocalypse, Pre-Slash, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 05:39:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14993969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: “It's amazing how a little tomorrow can make up for a whole lot of yesterday.”—John GuareScott and Hank afterApocalypse.





	When All's Well

**Author's Note:**

> i swore i wasn't gonna write anything for this fandom and yet.... here i am. how many times will this happen? will i ever keep my promises to myself? will i ever get to rest??? 
> 
> anyway, this is all hannah's fault but also thank you hannah for beta'ing this. it's only fair since, like i said, _it's all your fault_.
> 
> okay, enjoy! and stay tuned, because i plan to corner the niche market on scott/hank fics since ao3 seems to be dreadfully lacking in this ship.

“You knew him.”

Hank looks up as Scott sits beside him. “I did,” he confirms. He knows precisely who Scott is talking about, doesn’t need to clarify. The ache in his chest still stings, and he’s sure it’s even worse for Scott. “Better than most.”

Scott nods, mostly to himself. He rests his elbows on his knees and twiddles his thumbs. “He learned to control his power. Fully.”

Hank smiles faintly. “It took time, but yes.” Hank stares at his own hands and thinks back. “Professor had him in the basement, to do the least amount of damage. It took… a while. We went through a lot of fire extinguishers.”

Scott laughs, a soft and small wet sound.

“He got it, though. He was brilliant.” The back of Hank’s neck burns slightly as his thoughts drift. He thinks back to stolen nights and brief moments in between training, planning, fighting. He thinks back to the night before Alex was taking off for Vietnam, the kisses shared, and how every single one tasted like goodbye.

“Yeah,” Scott says eventually. “I always wanted to be like him. Even after we found out… about his powers.”

“He was a good man.” The words feel dry on his tongue: they don’t taste ashen, like a lie, but simply dry. A half-truth. Alex Summers _was_ a good man, but he was impulsive—more so than people always realized—and it’s what got him killed.

Hank’s hands twitch as his heart pounds guiltily in his chest. It feels wrong to think of him that way, even if it’s true. It feels wrong to remember him with a sour tinge though Hank finds it impossible to stop himself.

“I want to learn,” Scott murmurs as he taps at the edge of his glasses. “Like he did.”

Hank studies the younger man. “You already have better control than he did,” he admits.

Scott shakes his head. “I still want to learn. I want to help. Be an asset.”

Hank swallows the lump that forms in his throat. The anger, indignance: all so familiar, except now framed by brown locks instead of dirty-blond, spoken off fuller lips on a softer face. The draw of his brows is identical, Hank thinks. The same as his brother’s.

“Alright,” Hank says. “Alex’s records are still here, we can use those as reference.”

Neither of them makes a move to stand despite their words. There’s determination crackling in the air around them like lightning, but neither of them acts on it.

A quiet sob escapes Scott’s throat, unbidden. “I miss him.”

Hank gnaws on his already chapped lips and stares. They’re side by side on the back steps of the school, hardly a foot of distance between them, but it feels as though it might be an entire universe separating them. Hank’s never been good at this sort of thing. He’s never been good at handling his own grief or dealing with other people; put those two things together, and Hank is so woefully underequipped.

Even so, he reaches out a shaking hand and lays it on Scott’s shoulder. “I do too,” he says in a strangled tone.

“I want to make him proud.” Scott finally lifts his gaze and looks at Hank; there are tear tracks staining his flushed cheeks, sliding out from under the glasses like rain falling from a stormy cloud.

“You will.” Hank assures him softly, but no less genuine. “You will.”

Scott sniffles, then wipes at his face without turning away. His eyes squeeze shut as he raises his glasses to clean his face of tears, and Hank finds himself momentarily entranced by the entirety of Scott’s face. He’s so much softer than Alex was; not kinder, hardly, but softer, more delicate. Even with his eyes closed, or perhaps _because_ his eyes are closed, Scott exudes a fear and tenderness that Alex always strived to keep hidden.

“You will,” Hank says again. His hand on Scott’s shoulder slides across his back, settling on the opposite side to pull the younger man close. “I’ll make sure of it.”

It takes a few more moments of scrubbing at his eyes, sniffling, lower lip wobbling, before Scott breaks into a grin. It’s meager and gentle, tentative, but Hank is no less inspired by the sight.

“Yeah,” Scott says. “Thanks.”

Hank’s arm falls from Scott’s shoulder naturally, the moment having passed. “Of course. It _is_ my job, you know.”

Even with the glasses on, it’s easy to see Scott rolling his eyes. “Whatever. You’ve got a soft spot for the Summers boys.”

Hank’s eyes widen briefly, and he coughs to cover up his surprise; he feels caught out, distinctly trapped, and Scott dissolves into laughter beside him.

“You do!” Scott crows gleefully. “I _knew_ it. School’s gonna be a piece of cake.”

This time, it’s Hank who rolls his eyes. “We’ll see about that. A soft spot doesn’t mean I’ll go easy on you.”

Scott’s plush lips twist into a smirk that’s at once a spitting image of Alex, and something else entirely. “We’ll see,” Scott echos. He smirks for a beat longer, and Hank’s neck burns again. Eventually, Scott stands and brushes the wrinkles from his jeans. “See you ‘round,” Scott says as he goes back up the steps, the way he came.

“Meet me out here,” Hank calls after him. “Seven, sharp.”

Scott stops by the door. “In the _morning_?” He asks incredulously.

Hank rises slowly, makes a show of straightening his jacket and tie. “I said I wouldn’t go easy on you.”

Scott groans lightly, under his breath but not so quietly that Hank can’t hear it. “Fine,” Scott replies. “Seven. In the _morning_.” Then he’s off, muttering under his breath unhappily.

Hank watches him go until the door falls shut. He swallows nervously and casts a quick look around to see if anybody was watching. The back courtyard is empty—which is why Hank had come out here in the first place, for peace and quiet—and not a soul witnessed the exchange.

Hank finally lays a hand over his heart. The ache is there under his palm, burning hot like an untreated, festering wound; his heart beats fast, though, and he only feels a little guilty over his excitement of working with Scott.

He breathes deeply and lets the ache twinge and remind him of what he’s lost, then starts thinking up a training regime for tomorrow, to plan for what he’s gained.


End file.
